Fall
by foxtree43
Summary: Abbadon is wreaking havoc, the King of Hell has been captured by the Winchesters, and a Civil War pits angels against each other and is tearing Heaven apart. A certain demon and a certain angel on the other side of the world have remained blissfully unaffected by any of this—that is, until the angels start falling. Oneshot inspired by tumblr user somebodysavefrederickchilton.


DISCLAIMER: This is based on a post by tumblr user **somebodysavefrederickchilton**. Just add "post/78583929960/oh-lord-i-just-realized-go-crowley-and" to the end of their URL and it'll take you right to it. That idea just kinda tugged on my heartstrings in just the right way, and this little fic is a result!

The important thing you need to know going into this is that I will never write GO!Crowley and SPN!Crowley as the same person. Ever ever ever. They are two different people, always. Also, this assumes that the Almostpocalypse occurred sometime in the 90's, when Good Omens was released, and that the events of Supernatural are happening much later (when the episodes are airing). In other words, GO!Crowley and Aziraphale have long since stopped worrying about the end of the world by the time they start hearing about all these crazy happenings going on in the States.

* * *

**Fall**

"All I'm saying… what I'm saying…" Crowley trailed off, slurring his words and raising his glass with a flourish. A bit of red wine sloshed out—he barely responded to Aziraphale's admonishing "Really, my dear, do be more _careful…_"—and he continued, "What I'm _saying_ is… S'all a big mess. 'S a _mess_."

"Mm-hmm," Aziraphale hummed in agreement, his eyes closed as he smiled a bit drunkenly—though not, at the moment, nearly as far gone as Crowley was. Aziraphale was sitting on the couch in the back room of his bookshop, his shoes already discarded, his legs pulled up onto the couch cushion and crossed before him. Crowley stood in front of him with one hand on his hip and the other hand waving his wine glass back and forth as he spoke.

Crowley tended to get very worked up over the whole situation going on in America, and really, Aziraphale wasn't sure what all the fuss was about. Yes, he had to admit, it _was_ interesting that a couple of humans (not an Antichrist or a witch or anything like that, mind you, just a pair of normal, everyday _humans_) had managed to avert Heaven's and Hell's second go at an apocalypse. But Aziraphale had not heard so much as a word from Heaven in ages, and in this particular instance he was content to think… What was the saying? No news is good news?

And besides, Aziraphale had a sneaking suspicion that Crowley would care _much_ less if it weren't for the fact that a demon bearing his name had taken over the entirety of Hell, calling himself its "King."

Aziraphale chuckled at the thought of it. What a silly idea, a _king _of Hell.

"You list'ning, Angel?"

"Hmm?" he asked politely, looking up from his own wine glass with a small smile.

Crowley's sunglasses were sliding down his nose, and he peered over them now to shoot a pointed look at the angel.

"I was _saying…_ that—_Hic!_—they just don't know what they're _doing_ Down There," Crowley continued, looking away and assuming now that he had Aziraphale's attention. He waved his free hand in dismissal and amended, "Not that they ever _did_, but now it's gone and got a lot worse, hasn't it?"

He began pacing.

It _was_ getting worse, Crowley thought. Granted, he hadn't heard a word from Hell in ages, only passing rumors… but that only served to make Crowley more nervous.

"And now I'm hearing that _Abaddon's _been spotted?" he added incredulously, whirling around to face Aziraphale. The angel looked just as calm as ever, except for the occasional half-hearted glare he sent at the red wine Crowley kept spilling on the carpet. "First some idiot, a bloody _crossroads _demon of all things, a _salesman_ for Go—for _Someone's_ sake… He goes and takes the whole place over—_Hic!_—does a total overhaul, and you know, I almost thought he _might_ be alright when I heard about the whole 'endless queue' thing, but _now _he's gone and let it all fall apart! 'S a mess, just about Civil War down there! And now _Abaddon?_ I don't…"

He paused. The expression on Aziraphale's face had suddenly taken a sharp turn away from calm.

"Er… Angel…?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

The angel suddenly looked… Well, he looked _horrified_, really, but it couldn't have been by what Crowley had been saying about Abaddon, given that Aziraphale had never really been concerned about the goings-on in Hell (no matter how politely he always listened to Crowley's rants). Something was wrong, and it was something decidedly _not_ related to Hell.

"Aziraphale," he insisted, staring at the angel with his brow furrowed. He sobered up instantly, blinked, and waited for some kind of response.

But Aziraphale was frozen. The angel shook his head, staring wide-eyed into space, as if he wasn't really _seeing_ anything in front of him. His face had gone several shades too pale, and he had already dropped his glass on the floor, paying no mind to the shattered bits of glass and the spilled wine. Crowley slowly bent down and placed his own glass on the floor, never once taking his eyes off of Aziraphale.

The angel opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again and stammered, "I—I don't… S—something's wrong… Crowley, something is very, _very_ wrong."

Crowley shook his head, eyeing Aziraphale with confusion. "What is it?"

"… I don't know," Aziraphale admitted. When he finally turned to look Crowley in the eye, Crowley found himself wishing that he hadn't. The angel's eyes were wide and glazed over and _frightened_ in a way that he hadn't seen since before the Apocalypse-that-wasn't. "I—I don't know."

Before Crowley could think of anything to say, Aziraphale let out a sound that was caught halfway between a gasp and a frightened shout—and then his wings were extended, taking up nearly the entire room in all their shining, golden glory. It was a sight that would melt a human being's eyeballs in their sockets within seconds, and Crowley backpedalled away with a cry of shock, one arm instinctively flying up to shield his face from the harsh light.

"_Aziraphale, what—?!"_

But Aziraphale was not listening to him. He was trashing his wings about, knocking books off of the shelves and blowing the curtains off of the windows, and Crowley had no choice but to back further away.

The light emanating from the angel's wings suddenly flared brighter. But Crowley had to stop shielding his face in favor of clapping both hands over his ears and squinting against the light, because Aziraphale had begun screaming, and it was such a gut-wrenching, agonizing sound—a sound that was _just_ out of range of human hearing—that Crowley couldn't quite bear to listen to it.

And seconds later, he realized why Aziraphale was screaming.

His wings were burning.

_Oh, no,_ he thought, something akin to dread settling in the pit of his stomach.

Aziraphale's wings were actually _burning._

_Oh, no, no, no, ohshitohshitohshit!_

To a human, it would have looked like a flash of light and nothing more. But to Crowley—and worse, to Aziraphale—it was slow, every little detail of the process visible.

The light was fading now, and Crowley watched in wide-eyed horror as Aziraphale gripped his hair and closed his eyes and just kept on _screaming_. Windows shattered. Crowley's forgotten glass of wine shattered. The coffee table was overturned, along with the bookshelves lining the walls.

The burning began at the tips of Aziraphale's wings. The pristine white feathers were slowly scorched black and began to flake away, and bits of ash floated all around them, clogging the air, disappearing too slowly, until all that was left was the burnt, featherless husk of what used to be Aziraphale's wings.

And when _that_ burnt up, Aziraphale's scream took on an even higher pitch, drowning out all other sound for what was, undoubtedly, the longest thirty seconds of Crowley's six thousand years.

By the time his screams died out, the angel had collapsed to his knees on the floor, his arms hanging limply at his sides as he kneeled silently amidst the overturned bookshelves and scattered papers and the shattered windows. He was shaking, and although Crowley knew that neither of them _needed_ to breathe, the angel was taking in hasty and uneven breaths, staring wide-eyed down at the floor.

Crowley gulped.

"… Aziraphale?"

There was no response, and Crowley chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, looking over the fallen angel—

No.

No, he reminded himself, not _fallen_, not Aziraphale. He was too… well, Crowley wasn't exactly sure what Aziraphale was too much of, but no_._ Aziraphale had not fallen.

And anyway Crowley _knew_ what it looked like to fall, and it looked nothing like this.

With a glance, Crowley set right everything in the room that had been knocked over or broken. The windows were made whole, the curtains righted, the books aligned back onto their upright shelves, and it looked for all the world like nothing had ever been moved in the first place. It was a series of small miracles that might have taken a lot out of him if he hadn't had much more pressing matters at hand. He noticed for the first time that his sunglasses were gone, and that he had no idea where in the room they might be.

But that hardly seemed to matter at the moment, because it was then, while Crowley was distracted by his cleaning and with the losing of his sunglasses, that he heard the first sob come from his friend.

His eyes went straight to Aziraphale, and in less than a second Crowley had closed the distance between them and kneeled down directly in front of the angel, placing his hands firmly on Aziraphale's shoulders.

He paused and opened his mouth to say something, but Aziraphale didn't seem like he was anywhere near in the right mind to listen to anything Crowley had to say. The angel wasn't even looking at him; he was just staring into space a little bit to Crowley's left, shaking, his eyes wide and overflowing with tears.

Aziraphale was actually _crying_, and so Crowley swallowed whatever words might have been coming up his throat, and he simply pulled his friend into his arms. He didn't say a word as Aziraphale melted into him and buried his face into Crowley's shirt and clutched his suit jacket with shaking hands. Aziraphale cried like… like a _human_, letting out ugly sobs and holding on to Crowley like that was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

And although Crowley was silently running his hands up and down the angel's back, resting his chin on top of Aziraphale's head and acting as calm and collected as he knew Aziraphale needed him to be, he scowled and glared straight ahead with all the fury of Hell in his eyes.

This was _someone's_ fault.

And he was going to make damn well sure that _someone_ paid dearly for this.


End file.
